DON’S WAR
These are the recollections of Don Robinson, born 30th
November 1928, of his life before and during WW2.
“Not a literary masterpiece, but I think as accurate
as my memory allows.” Don Robinson 28/10/2015
I have always
been interested in the news, so even as a young boy I knew that our Prime
Minister Mr. Chamberlain had brought back from Germany a piece of paper –
saying “Peace in our time”, Adolf Hitler has no interest in conquest.
Months slipped
by. I vaguely knew that there was a lot of diplomacy going on. Not much to
interest me.
Came a Sunday
morning. I was a choirboy for morning service at the local church. Then a
startling surprise! In the middle of the service two or three men rushed in and
grabbed their children and ran out with them. What was going on? I had never
seen a service interrupted like that. I found out a little later that these
parents had heard that War was imminent, and wanted to get their children into
an Air Raid Shelter. Nothing happened. I should say that at this time I was
staying at my Grandmother’s house at Maidstone in Kent. After the disrupted
service I made my way back to Gran’s. We were warned that there was to be
a very important announcement on the wireless. We tuned in and heard our Prime
Minister Mr Chamberlain make a mind blowing announcement. “We have told Hitler
that unless he stops his invasion of Poland a state of war will exist against
Germany. I have to tell you we have had no reply from Germany so we are at
War.”
Quite a shock.
What happens when you are at war? I half expected enemy bombers to come roaring
into our sky – nothing. All quiet.
During the
next few weeks nothing much seems to have happened. Later this period was known
as “The Phoney War”. However, on our home front there was lots going on.
Children in droves were evacuated to the country for safety. Many tears. Trish
(Don’s wife) was, I found later, sent to the West Country. At the time my
parents must have thought I was already in rural Kent, and did not need
evacuation. Windows were taped to avoid flying glass. Sand bags were filled.
Black outs on windows. No street lights. Gas masks issued. Also issued – ration
books for our food. We were told to “Dig for Victory”, and grow all the fruit
and vegetables we could.
Things may have started quietly but now things in Kent were hotting up. A German invasion seemed very likely. Something the Germans called “Sea Lion”. Many troops were sent to our area. The Army came round to see if anyone would billet soldiers in any spare room they had. Dumps of tarpaulin covered stores beside country roads. Look into a wood and see tanks and army vehicles parked under the trees. We heard that the large stone bridge over the Medway, in town, was to be blown up if it looked like a London route to invading Germans.
Of course the
Germans had to round up enough craft for a crossing – and cope with our very
efficient Navy. One thing that was a must for the ‘Hun’ – air superiority. By
now Kent, and particularly Maidstone, was being bombed. During a raid one could
look up and see weaving vapour trails. No-one called it the “Battle of Britain”
then, but that was what we were seeing.
I remember
being at Maidstone railway station when I saw an odd group of men. Three or
four men in chocolate coloured battle dress, with large bright coloured circles
on their backs. These men were escorted by armed soldiers. A German air crew
that had been shot down. Off to prisoner-of-war camp. Perhaps, oddly enough, no
sign of hostility toward them. Anyhow, this lot were not going to drop any more
bombs on Kent.
Before I go any further I must write about a dilemma Mum and Dad had at this time. Dad at that time worked as a maintenance man at the Cricklewood firm of Rolls Razor - now on engineering war work. It was pointed out to Dad that as he was on war work, and in the work’s Fire Brigade, plus he was near the cut-off age for call up, that he could possibly get away with not being enlisted in the Army. For Dad, no choice. Ex T.A. (Territorial Army), he wanted to get in to the Army. The snag was that he would have to leave Mum to with two boys, and all the perils of wartime life on her own.[1] I don’t know what was said, but Dad joined up. He was now Driver Robinson in the Royal Army Service Corps. He was posted to Chesterfield to train. More on Dad later.
Mum came to a
decision – if I was getting bombed in Kent, I might as well come back to London
to be bombed with her. I think, in a very small way, I helped fill the gap Dad
had made.
A Maidstone
footnote; in Kent the possible German invasion was still on the cards. Kent was
at the sharp end of the U.K. If you came into Maidstone by rail you were met at
the barrier by a policeman. He wanted to see your identity card and enquired
why you were visiting the town?
So, for me,
back to Cricklewood in North West London. In a way I look on this suburb as my
home town – although I was born in Balham.
Cricklewood was also into the fight big time. A gun emplacement was set up in nearby Gladstone Park – 3.7 Ack Ack guns, and Bofors for low flying raiders. The gunners were a mixture of men and girls. Men handled the guns, women did the prediction and range finding. We school boys loved to watch the Army and, thanks to the Gunners, we could tell a 3.7 from a Bofors!
Nearby was a
large Air Raid Precautions (A.R.P.) headquarters for N.W. London. This was
known as “The Hub”; much of the accommodation was underground. Great fleets of
A.R.P. vehicles and many staff. While on stand-by during the day the staff
turned all the surrounding land over to growing fruit and vegetables. Not only
that, they had pigs!
I believe
that just prior to the war’s start some locals did not want guns in the park,
or an A.R.P. Depot, fearing that it would make the area a target. The
resident’s petition failed, I’m pleased to say. Later I think they might have
been glad guns and the A.R.P. were on the job.
By now the
Blitz had started. We were raided every night. We got to expect the siren’s
wail as darkness fell. We had a snug refuge to run to – the firm Dad had worked
for, Rolls Razor, had made a deep basement into a shelter for their workers. At
night it offered shelter to workers and their families. We slept on wooden
benches, and were glad to be there. Dear Mum, before we left home for the ten
minute run to the shelter, would always check – washing up, done; beds we were
not going to sleep in, made. Many nights we trotted to the shelter, Eric in his
pram – with all of our bedding piled over him for protection (We left a
breathing hole for him). By the time we arrived the raid had often started. All
the usual sounds – the uneven throb of German bomber engines; the Woof Woof of
our guns; the sound of falling shrapnel; search lights; the sound of falling
bombs. It could get very lively. We knew the first wave of bombers would drop
tons of incendiary bombs, quite small, but filled with a deadly phosphorus
material. You could not put water on them, you knew the fires had to be dealt
with quickly. The next wave of ‘raiders’ would target the fires with high
explosive bombs. Too many fires for the Fire Brigade to tackle, they went for
the big fires. Local folk tried to tackle small fires with sand or earth.
Of course,
all London was a target. However, I’m afraid Cricklewood was, for the Germans,
a juicy target. We had so much local war effort going on, and I expect the
Germans knew it. For starters Handley Page aircraft factory at Claremont Road
were building bombers; the railway yards and coal depot; Smith’s Clocks and
Rolls Razor turning out war work; a factory making aircraft drop tanks. Up on
the North Circular Road there was a firm building wooden landing craft.
The Canadian
Army took over a great garage complex as their H.Q. Not least, we had a great
morale booster – the Cricklewood Palais de Dance, and the Roller Skating Rink!
These were much used by the many visiting forces that were arriving – Yanks,
Poles, and of course the Canadians. However, in our part of the world there was
something that we, and the Germans, knew nothing about.
On high
ground at Dollis Hill was what had been the Post Office Research Station before
the war. It had been transformed by the oddest camouflage I’d ever seen. Nets
had been stretched from one roof top to the next, and there were guards on the
gate. It was many years before we learned that work was going on there
connected to breaking the German “Enigma Code”. I am a bit puzzled as to why
the Germans never attacked this odd lay-out with its shape change? Thank God,
it never took a hit.
The morning after the night before …. Gossip – Who had been hit? Were there any casualties? As a for instance, we heard that one of our Sunday School teachers had been killed by a piano - doubt blasted across a room. Mum sent me to the Broadway[2] on an errand. To my surprise one house, a terraced house in our street, had disappeared! Just a heap of bricks and tiles. Hit by an incendiary bomb, every scrap of wood burnt. There was though often a great spirit amongst the people. On the Broadway, by the famous pub “The Crown”, was a paper shop. The front had been blasted off. The shop-keeper swept rubble and glass from what had been the entrance, he then put up a big sign “Even more open for business”.
We had a surprise message about Dad. He had his leg broken in a bombing raid at Chesterfield. In a few days he would be with us on sick leave. That evening, as we were about to leave for the shelter, there was a knock at the door. It was Dad, and in what a state! Exhausted, a leg in plaster, carrying all his equipment – rifle, kit bag, webbing & small pack. We barely got him into the house. In spite of the cold, due to pain and exhaustion, he was sweating. Mum got busy with vital tea making. Dad told us the taxi that had brought him from the station had charged him an exorbitant fare – for running through an air raid. Nice way to treat a wounded soldier! Dad told Mum “Get the boys and yourself round to the shelter. I’m done, I’ll take my chances. All I want to do is lie down.”
Next day we
got the full story of Dad’s injury. His unit had been guarding a power station.
Dad patrolled a length of embankment. There was an air raid, a bomb hit the
railway embankment and blew Dad down the incline, breaking his leg. Dad said
that in fact he had been lucky. Further down the line trucks tumbled down the
embankment, not good company to fall with! So for several weeks we had the
pleasure of having Dad home. Time came for a healed Dad to return to his base.
I walked up to the station with him. Not knowing that we had seen the last of
him for two or three years.
Once back something rather unusual happened to Dad.
Father had always tried to further his education, and was quite a clever clogs.
The Army spotted his talent and sent him on an Officers training course, which
Dad passed. However, he did not get a commission. The reason was that he had no
private income. I wonder how many good officers were lost due to this problem.
Later Dad got to a very high non-commissioned rank.
Now, a black
mark for me. Like most of my mates we always hoped the school would get blown
up. Night time of course, and nobody hurt. I suppose we thought we would get a
break from school. Well, our wish nearly came to pass. An incendiary bomb wiped
out the teacher’s staff-room. School work went on for us.
We got a form
giving us an address for Dad’s mail. He was in something called “The Eighth
Army”. Of course we did not know that he was on a troop ship heading for North
Africa.
Later I
always listened out on the wireless for whatever news they gave you about the
Eighth Army. Where was Dad? And what were they up to? Wireless. Like most of us
we heard the voice of “Lord Haw-Haw”. An Irish traitor who poured out
propaganda for the Germans. His real name was William Joyce. Captured by us at
war’s end and shot.
Now, as I
said, I always tried to follow Dad’s adventures but, it was not until much
later that I realised what a hero Mum, and a lot of women like her, were. Dad
had his mates, but Mum was often alone to fight her war. Looking after us two
boys, coping with bombing and rationing (I bet Eric and I got the lion’s share
of the rations). Doing a little work to make some cash, as at first Dad was on
very basic Army pay.
One big worry
for women was the sight of a Telegram Boy riding into their road. We all knew
these boys often carried an awful telegram – “Regret to inform you that your
husband/son is dead/missing/wounded/a prisoner.” What a relief, if at least
this time, he passed by your front door.
Now on to one
of my ‘wartime epics’. “The Chip Run”. I have already mentioned our night
shelter, in those dangerous times not a bad place to be. Apart from a direct
hit – it was safe, warm, and dry, with plenty of company. Sometimes a
sing-song. We were all used to sleeping on boards and blankets. Right, back to
the “Chip run”. Early evening and someone would say to Mum “Seems quiet, how
about Don getting some fish and chips?” Here I must put in a word for our brave
fishermen, who fished in spite of bad weather – or Jerry! Fish and Chips were
never rationed – Thank God!
The “HiTide
Fish Shop” and restaurant was about a ten minute run from our refuge.
Preparations were made. I was issued with a carrier bag and list of who wanted
what e.g. 2 cod and six of chips for Mrs Brown. (You got a lot of chips then
for sixpence). Also, of course, the cash. Everyone was expected to find the
correct payment for their meal – no way could I, or the Fish Shop, cope with
odd bits of change. Right – somebody would go up the ramp that led to ground
level. “Yes, fairly quiet – away you go Don.”
Outside of
the back of the factory was a service road. Deserted at night, not a light
shone, and very dark. I would run up the middle of this road – turn left and
across Cricklewood Broadway to the Fish shop. It was great to step in from the
cold and dark to bright light and the lovely smell of frying fish. The staff
knew me well. I handed over the cash and bag, then tucked into a corner to wait
for my big order. The restaurant and shop were both very busy. Many patrons of
the Palais de Dance and skating rink were enjoying a pre-dance or skate meal.
Lots of servicemen – and girls. After perhaps about twenty minutes a steaming
hot carrier bag was handed over to me. I can’t remember how many packages were
in the bag, but the bag was very full.
Back out into
the dark – very dark after the light. Good grief! It’s going to be one of those
nights! Jerry was attacking. I could hear the uneven beat of German aero
engines, and the Bang! Bang! Of our guns putting up a great barrage. Searchlights
that did little to light my way, and the sound of falling bombs. Back across
the Broadway and into the service road. My eyes are used to the dark now. It’s
very noisy – planes, bombs and deadly shrapnel. I could hear it thumping down,
smashing tiles etc. What goes up must come down. When a shell exploded several
thousand feet up a mass of jagged lumps of steel fall to earth. In spite of all
this I loved the sound of our guns – Jerry was not getting away without a flea
in his ear! The down the ramp to a welcome. My reward for my run – on top of
mum’s order, a bag of chips!
Two things I
must say. For some reason I was never frightened. “Harm always came to someone
else.” The other thing, that puzzles me now, is that my lovely Mum always cared
for her boy’s wellbeing in every way – but she did not seem to understand the
terrible risks I took on my run. Bombs and shrapnel – I wore no tin hat, and if
I had one it would not have saved me from a shrapnel hit. But I survived – and
enjoyed my chips!
I’ve written
quite a lot about shrapnel. To give you some idea of its lethal power – a
jagged chunk of steel weighing about as much as a steam-iron, that had fallen
from five thousand feet – this sort of thing could give you a nasty headache,
or leave a large hole in your roof!
At fourteen
school finished for me. I wished they had made a better job of educating me. I
wanted to learn, but they would often seem to plough through a subject, like
maths, when I had not really understood part one. However, I do remember a
history teacher who could bring the subject alive. I wish I could do him the
justice of remembering his name – I can’t.
To the
surprise, I think, of my teacher and classmates I got a job on a national
newspaper. The now long defunct Daily Herald.[3]
Their office was in Covent Garden, so I had quite a long trip every day to the
office. Good weather and I was off down the Edgeware Road on my bike. Rain, ice
or fog and it was the Tube[4]. I
was employed as a messenger, one of several. Pay was very modest, but I enjoyed
the work. Up and down to nearby Fleet Street – e.g. to pick up copy from
Reuters or Associated Press. Copy and photo’s to be taken to the Ministry – at
what was pre-war London University – for censorship. Everything done at speed.
If it was urgent I took a taxi. I really enjoyed seeing how the paper was put
together. An interesting thing – two or three of our reporters were in khaki,
British War Correspondent flashes on their shoulders. They would often go off
on dangerous missions with our forces. All newspapers had to share these
reporters work. If, for instance, one of them went on a bombing raid his copy
was shared with all the other newspapers. One of our reporters was in the
ill-fated raid on Dieppe – our Naval reporter, a chap named McWhinne(?) was
killed in Italy.
I sometimes
wonder if I should have stuck with newspaper work. I loved the bustle of the
Newsroom, and the jobs I did – one day a run to 10 Downing Street to get copy
from our man there. It was at this job when I first came into contact with V1’s
– flying bombs, or, as they became known, Doodlebugs. On the street in daylight
– guns blazing! A cheer - we had hit a plane! It went down and exploded. Up
went a column of smoke – another cheer – we had got a Jerry! What we did not
know at that time was that it was a pilotless bomb, and nothing to cheer about.
I often
finished a shift in the evening. If it was one of my Tube travel days, I got to
see hundreds of people sleeping on the platforms. A narrow strip was left on
the platform’s edge for travellers to board or disembark from a train. Watch
your step! The Tube stations made great shelters, being so far underground.
Around this time,
I had a particularly nasty adventure with a Doodlebug. Off duty I had gone over
to the nearby North Circular Road on my bike to get something. Returning home I
rode up a very high spot in London, Dollis Hill. At the crest, as it happens,
the Post Office Research buildings I have already mentioned. The siren had gone
off – in daylight! An air-raid. I wasn’t worried, nothing was happening. Then I heard a V1 approaching! They made a
very unpleasant bubbling, roaring sound. I could hear guns barking as they
tried to explode it in the air. Then I saw the beast! I jumped off my bike and
laid down at the base of a wall. I had a really good look at it – it was
certainly no more than a thousand feet high – and of course I was on high
ground. Quickly it was out of sight and then – the engine cut out. (When they
ran out of fuel the result was instant silence) Then the awful sound of an
explosion!
On my bike
and cycled the few hundred yards to Park Side. I could see most of the
Cricklewood area, and – shock, horror! A
huge column of smoke was rising from somewhere near home! Mum and Eric were, I
knew, at home – were they alright? I raced towards home. In minutes I was at
the impact site – the next road but one to us. A couple of houses had
disappeared, adjoining houses just shells. No roof, no doors, no windows.
Everywhere a strange yellow fog. I found out later that the yellow fog was dust
made from vaporized bricks. I also found out that one of my ex class-mates was
in one of the wrecked houses.
Before the
lad’s mother went out, she had told him “If there’s a raid get under the
stairs.” He had done that, and it saved his life. He was though deaf for some time.
By this time the A.R.P. “Heavy Lift” were arriving to look for casualties. Sadly,
there were some dead, including children. I got home and found Mum and Eric
were alright; though all our front windows had gone – in spite of the tape and
what was left of the curtains. The curtains looked more like ragged lace. But
we were better off than many.
Once home,
the next move was a therapeutic cup of tea. I think if the Germans could have
cut our supply of tea off, they might have won the war! In the middle of doom
and disaster we always turned to tea (If our tea and sugar ration could stand
it!).
After the war
the impact site was not rebuilt. When I last saw it, it was just a grass
square. I wonder if folk know now why there is an odd gap in the row of terraced
houses?
Now I must
say something about a day that was very special for me – and many others! Every
morning I eagerly switched on the wireless, to see what the Eighth Army were up
to. I knew Dad was by now fighting in Sicily or Italy. Stunning news! I was so
excited as I heard the announcement – June 6th 1944 was D-Day! We
had stormed the beaches in Normandy. Fierce fighting was going on; could we
hold on to the beach-heads? Would the Germans manage to bring up
reinforcements? The next few days were going to be crucial. Luckily, we held
on, in spite of bloody combat. The Germans had got things wrong. We had fooled
them on just where our attack was going to happen. Would it be Calais, or
Normandy? At first the Germans thought our assault on Normandy was a feint; and
that our real attempt would be around Calais. So they held on to their
reinforcements for too long – for them! The one man who could have taken a
decision, Rommel, was on leave in Germany. Like many, the Germans wrongly
assumed the weather was too bad for the Allies to invade. Thank God we held on,
and pushed deeper into France – then Germany. What chance did Hitler have? With
Dad closing in from the South, and the D-Day attack making a pincer movement
from the West!
The Germans
had another setback. I had joined the A.R.P. By now I was an older Scout in the
24th Troop. We were asked if we could do one night a week as a bike
messenger. In the event of cut phone-lines a kid on a bike might get through.
Of course I was up for it. The glamour of the uniform, and a tin hat! In fact,
the huge overcoat they issued me with, was so heavy I could hardly climb on my
bike! My duties were easy – just sleep (all standing?) at the Hub A.R.P. HQ on
Sunday nights. It was often packed, and I would sleep on a stretcher in a
parked ambulance. Sometimes there was a duty call - “Don, ride down to the Town
Hall in Kilburn and tell them we want a couple of bales of blankets.” This was
real war-winning stuff! Why did they not just phone? I suppose they thought I
ought to earn my keep. Actually, I am a bit doubtful as to how much use a bike
messenger could have been. Near a bomb impact there would be broken glass, the
tyres would not take it. When I rode past the V1 impact site I blew both tyres
on the glass.
So, in the
end, we won through. Big Victory celebrations. A bonfire, and dancing in the
street. Amongst the fuel for the bonfire – gas masks! The rubber burnt well. In
spite of the Victory it was a pretty grey world. We were still rationed, and we
felt the loss of so many dead. Much later I came home one day, and found a
strange red-faced man in the house. Quartermaster Sgt Len Robinson was home! It
was great to have him back home, alive and well. He kidded me that in the
future he wanted sand sprinkled on his food! (He had been in the North African
desert for a long time.) He told me lots of tales about his war. Mum said we
were both “Army Barmy”!
One of Dad’s
tales – When they could, the Eighth Army brought out a one-page newspaper “8th
Army News”. One issue contained the following item - “If and when you get back
to the U.K. you will find lots of Yanks. Treat them with respect. Remember,
they have been there longer than you have!”
Once back
home Dad was issued with a civvy suit and put his name down to go on a
wood-working course. Something that he already knew about. Once qualified he
was a carpenter, and was issued with a good set of tools. I was not surprised;
Dad was brilliant on his coursework.
For us the
War had ended; all alive and well. A few scars in our minds I suppose. One
thing that did give me a nasty surprise, during the Blitz I never knew that
thousands had been killed or wounded. At the time they never issued casualty
figures.
As I wrote earlier, my education was not very special – note the way my story has been written, the words just ran off my pen ….[5]
If you want to find out more about the Home Front during WW2 visit http://www.homefronthistory.com
